


Imagine: Castiel being so thoroughly annoyed with the Winchesters after a hunt he has no idea talking is the last thing on your mind until literally everything is laid bare, including the angel.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [38]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempt at Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 05:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14371473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Castiel being so thoroughly annoyed with the Winchesters after a hunt he has no idea talking is the last thing on your mind until literally everything is laid bare, including the angel.

He’s still talking. _Still_.

Unimpeded by the playful nip of teeth along his jawline or the velvet heat of your tongue tracing the soft curve of his earlobe, the angel’s gravel-edged words spill from the pouting pink petals of flesh defining his mouth. Not even the firm love-bite tendered indelicately upon the ridged musculature of his neck diverts his diction. Although, to your satisfaction, it does draw a rumble of pleasure palpable beneath your wandering fingertips from deep within his ribcage. At least you have his vessel’s attention.

You admire the bright red imprint of your teeth marking his tanned skin. In retrospect, and for future reference, asking him _how the hunt went_ should probably be reserved for post-coitus cuddling. It’d be a lot let wearisome if you were already asleep.

There’s a natural pause in the unremitting onslaught of his speech pattern. Angel’s don’t need to breath, but vessel-bound they do require air in their lungs to set vocal chords into motion to produce intelligible syllables. Simple physical mechanics. His infuriated and infuriatingly stunning blues cast downward to regard you in the gap of quietude. “Do you believe Dean said that? And after it became obvious I was right all along.”

You’ve haven’t exactly been listening to Castiel’s rant about the Winchesters. You’ve heard it all before. Hell, you’ve lived most of it. And at present, you’re too preoccupied with undressing the angel, single-mindedly and single-handedly peeling away the layers of fabric separating you from your heaven. He doesn’t appear to notice you took the liberty of disrobing yourself already. Nor does he note, from this intimate perspective glancing down the frontal expanse of your bare flesh, the pink flush of excitement awakened on the exposed stretches of skin. Interpreting blatant hints evidently isn’t his strong suit.

Blinking and smiling sweetly up at him, running a finger over the stubble of his chin, you suck in your kiss-bruised lower lip and fake attentiveness, purring, “I never doubted you were right, angel.” You know interest in his grumbling is the only thing you’ll be faking tonight and it’s clearly what he needs to hear so he can move on to the blissful business at hand. Patting reassurance into his chest, you press into the solid column of his body and grind your hips against the arousal burgeoning in his pants. Practically vibrating with desire, you’re willing to say whatever enlists his participation in sailing this ship into sensually caressing seas.

He remains maddeningly motionless against your immodest ministrations save for a shift of expression. The subtle squint of his eyes, shining all their luminous blue intensity in your direction, makes you fear for a split second he’s questioning the sincerity of your assertion. It’s not a scolding statement that emerges from his lips, but one of gratitude. “Thank you. It’s nice to know someone around here appreciates me.” His confidence-bolstered gaze drifts up and out into the room beyond your naked form toward the awaiting sanctity of the bed. His rough palm settles on your shoulder. The touch is too decorous a distance from anywhere meaningful to be a sexual advance, but it’s blessed freaking contact.

Your heart beats hopefully faster. Arousal electrifies your lower belly. Warmth wets your center in anticipation. An involuntary mewl gurgles and circles in the back of your throat. This is definitely a step in the right direction. Or, maybe it isn’t. 

“Perhaps you could explain to Sam and Dean that-”

You exhale an exasperated sigh and smash your forehead to his collarbone as his words fade again to background noise. So close.

Languishing in desperation, inhaling the musky celestial scent of him, lust turns your actions wanton and feral. Enough of patience. You begin to fumble with the buttons of his white dress shirt. Growling, deciding three more buttons is three more too many, you rip the garment in your haste, sending the pearlescent plastic rounds scattering across the floor. Fisting the hem, you shove the garment over his broad shoulders with more force than necessary. It gets stuck in the vicinity of his elbows and you struggle for a moment to shake it loose. Tossing the ruined shirt aside, you peer up at his face for a reaction.

More words. Sam’s name. Dean again. He’s stoical in his fixation alright. Or an idiot. You want to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Undeterred by uncooperative shirts or seraphs, you eye the freckle below his right nipple. It looks delicious. It’s your favorite freckle. You kiss and lave affection on the spot with your tongue until his skin glistens and the bud above bolds crimson from overstimulation. 

A quick glance upward confirms your suspicions. Impassive as ever. Winchester _this_. Winchester _that_. Maybe if the Winchesters are so damn captivating he should be fucking them instead of you. Then again, maybe not. A distracted angel is better than no angel.

You trail open-mouthed kisses down his torso as you drop to your knees and unfasten his belt buckle and zipper. You claw unceremoniously at the waist to yank his boxers and trousers down his thick legs in one sweeping motion. His heavy cock bobs free before you. You’re reminded the angel does nothing in small measure and sometimes that’s a good thing. A _very_ good thing. Hands bracing against the rippling muscles of his thighs, you ghost a feather-light kiss to his tip.

Is that…it _is_ …profound silence. At last.

You lick the salty taste of him from your lips, a coquettish smile lingering on your lips as your favor lifts from his beautiful cock to his curiously gleaming aspect. “You finished talking about Sam and Dean yet?” you simper.

There. It clicks. The aperture of his pupils blow wide, consuming the gentle blue with a ferocity of needfulness as he sees the picture. His nostrils flare at the scent of your dripping arousal. His cock twitches against your cheek in answer. You have his undivided focus.

“Good,” you hum, “cause it’s been six days-”

“Four hours, seventeen minutes, and twenty-six seconds,” he interrupts.

“So you were paying attention then?” You arch a brow.

He nods and cards his fingers through your hair. Pure adoration softens his gaze.

“Then here’s a new number for you to ruminate on.” You shimmy to your feet and saunter slowly backward toward the bed. “If you don’t make me come in the next five minutes I think it’s entirely possible I’m going to spontaneously combust.”

“That’s not possible. Spontaneous human combustion is a-”

You frown and tap the bare flesh of your wrist.

Between his forgotten frustrations and yours, you’re going to give Sam and Dean something to talk about come morning.


End file.
